


Mandrake and Moonstone

by PuppiesRainbowsSadism



Series: Mandrake and Moonstone [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Familiar Castiel, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Animals, Suicide Attempt, Witch Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppiesRainbowsSadism/pseuds/PuppiesRainbowsSadism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years (one month, and eight days) ago, Sam was one of the most impressive witches in the world, having worked his way into the prestigious international Order of witches, warlocks, and other magical folk with nothing but determination, talent, and his familiar by his side. In fact, Sam couldn't have been happier, because despite the taboos surrounding it, despite their fear, Sam and his familiar, Castiel, had fallen hard for each other.</p><p>But four years (one month, and seven days) ago, a horrible fire brought everything tumbling down around Sam's ears:  His books, supplies, mentor, and familiar all burnt to a crisp, and Sam was suspended from The Order pending investigation.</p><p>Imagine his surprise when Castiel appears on his doorstep, very much alive and carrying the message that The Order wants him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Things We Lost (in the fire)

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my Sastiel Big Bang (2015) story! I don't know what gave me the idea or inspired me to write this, but once the idea was in my head, I had to get it out.
> 
> Many MANY thanks to my beta (who wishes to remain anonymous, but I still seriously appreciate her work), the amazing artist behind all this amazing art, m14mouse, and also glitterlisp for helping me round out the idea for this fic.
> 
> It's a pretty depressing affair, but there's a reason I didn't give this a higher rating/didn't use archive warnings. Most of the things listed in the tags are vague or nonexplicit. For example, the suicide attempt is not a recent one, it's seen through someone else's eyes, and it's not your typical kind of attempt. Still, if anything in the tags bothers you, it's probably best to skip over that part or not read this at all. And if I missed any warnings, please let me know.
> 
> EDIT: The italics decided to fuck off for some reason. I fixed the important ones, but some emphasis may have been lost.

Sam spun around the kitchen, eyes scanning every surface for his shaker of rosemary. He would have sworn he put it on the counter beside him, but it wasn’t there.

It was just like when Dean still set up Easter egg hunts for him, Sam told himself, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Granted, back then, Sam cheated a little with his developing magic, but the method was still the same. Turn and scan, up and down, but he still couldn’t find it, and his chest got a little tight.

A soft trill by his feet made him look down at the small red dragon peering up at him with the rosemary held gently in her mouth. Sam sighed and breathed easily. It had just rolled off the counter. He took the bottle from the dragon’s hands and patted her, much to her satisfaction. “Good girl,” he praised, measuring out the correct amount of rosemary and adding it to his pot. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he told her, at least once a day. It was a familiar routine, and if Sam had a service dog, or even a different dragon, that’s all it would be:  Routine. But he and the dragon were kindred spirits. She took every bit of praise to heart, as if she could really understand him, and she took good care of him in turn.

Sam sighed and spun around again, tension easing from his shoulders when he found the lemon he had cut to the left of the stove. He would have sworn he put it to the right.

The dragon at his feet began to growl, low in her throat.

“I know you don’t like lemons,” Sam tried to appease, but at least try it? I promise it won’t be as sour.”

The growling only got louder, more defensive, and Sam finally looked down to see his dragon’s eyes fixed to the front door, entire body a tense straight line. Even her broken wing was trying to unfurl to make herself look more intimidating.

“Serenity?” Sam started tentatively. “What’s wrong?”

The knock on the door startled Sam, but Serenity snapped her jaw shut. Her growl continued to vibrate low in her chest.

“You dork,” Sam scolded playfully as he turned the burner on the stove down and made his way to the door. “It’s probably just Dean or Benny.” Sam didn’t even believe his own words. Dean never bothered to knock anymore, and Benny’s knocks were louder, more sure.

“Maybe the mail? Or . . . “ he didn’t have another excuse. It was too late in the day for the mail.

The knocks came again, more tentative than the last, and Serenity flew lopsidedly to Sam’s shoulder. He stopped just long enough to scold her for exerting herself, but she just snapped at the door again, and Sam continued a little slower with five-odd pounds of dragon on his shoulder.

“Sam?” he heard when they were close enough. Sam stopped in his tracks, and Serenity’s defense turned into confusion.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Sam’s hand was shaking as he reached for the handle, and the air was stolen from his lungs when he met a pair of bright blue eyes on the other side that he never thought he’d see again.

Castiel was never a very expressive person, but he was smiling when he saw Sam standing in the doorway, relief very plain on his face. Sam couldn’t breath, for a much different reason.

“Sam,” Castiel sighed. “The investigation is over. They -- they sent me back to you. To tell you. You’re innocent, and you can come back to the Order. If you want.”

Sam’s back seized up so tight it hurt, and he clutched the doorway for support. Serenity was only doing her job when she shot sparks at Castiel, almost catching his coat ablaze and making him stumble back. She gently ushered Sam back inside the house enough for him to slam the door shut and bolt it.

Sam felt like his lungs would burst at any moment. He collapsed against the island, and Serenity hopped in his lap and breathed warm and steady against Sam’s neck. It did little to help. All Sam was capable of was breathing in in in.

Breathe in, get as much air as you can, while there’s still some left.

Keep low. That’s where the air is.

Turning to say something before the fire engulfs his vision. Breathe in in in, lungs full of smoke.

Serenity yipped and bit Sam’s hand, hard enough jolt him back to reality, but not hard enough to break skin.

She took a deep breath, long exhale, and Sam, still shaking and struggling to stay focused, followed her example until he was breathing more or less normally again.

Serenity licked where she had bit, her tongue sandpapery, like a cat’s, before blowing hot air onto Sam’s face to dry his tears. He hadn’t even realised he was crying. He only cried harder, because this sweet little dragon took care of him better than he ever took care of himself.

“Sam?” he heard muffled from the doorway, still Castiel’s voice, no doubt, but this time it was drenched in concern. It coaxed a small, silent sob out of Sam before he stuttered through a few words under his breath and, with a simple flick of his wrist, the door was soundproof.

Immediately, Serenity nuzzled Sam’s neck and settled in comfortably, managing to earn a small laugh from Sam, even as he was still shaking. “Thank you, girl,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Why he was thanking her for protecting him from Castiel, Sam had no idea.

Whatever Castiel had expected -- and he had years to expect dozens, hundreds of situations -- that was not it. Probably at the top of his list was a joyous reunion. All these years apart, their bond severed so cruelly, surely Sam should be happy to see him. But Castiel knew what a panic attack looked like, especially in Sam.

Castiel winced. He was so wrapped up in his own emotions that he didn’t stop to think about how The Incident -- which he can now happily call The Accident -- would have worsened Sam’s anxiety. The sight of Castiel on his doorstep must have dragged up old, painful memories. Luckily, Sam had escaped the fire without any burns or scars or any other indicators of what happened that he would remind of what happened with every glance.

Castiel sighed and brushed one of his own scars. It wasn’t bad, not anymore, but there was an emptiness in his chest, a sense of regret and dread and sorrow such that he had never felt before.

And that dragon. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it. Was that Sam’s familiar? Surely not. Surely the dragon with the deformed wing couldn’t be a familiar.

But now Castiel was just being prejudiced. If a familiar had found Sam in their time apart  . . . well, Castiel should be happy for them both. He wondered what the dragon looked like in its other form. He wondered if Sam felt the same way towards it that he had towards Castiel.

Castiel shook his head. His next stop would logically be Dean’s house, a couple blocks down the road, but if he remembered correctly, and Dean managed to keep the same schedule all these years, then he wouldn’t be home for a few more hours, at least.

So Benny’s it was. Castiel made himself look away from Sam’s house -- what used to be their house, what used to feel welcoming -- and forced his feet to move. He could stand there all day and night, but it would make no difference. He needed to find Benny, and then Dean, and then maybe they can sort everything out.

Benny’s house was only two houses farther and across the street from Dean’s, but the journey felt like it took hours longer than the few minutes it actually was.

Benny ran a foster home for lost, abandoned, and/or injured creatures. He had a large doggie door installed in his back door that he always left open, no matter how many people told him it was a safety hazard, Castiel being one of those people. Well, Castiel was thankful for it now, as it made it easy for him to get inside without much trouble. He didn’t want to risk the door being slammed in his face again..

He ended up in the kitchen, which was sealed off from the animals. Something was cooking on the stove -- Benny’s legendary cajun cuisine, if Castiel had to guess -- but Benny wasn’t there. Castiel stood by the door and waited, knowing it was inevitable that Benny would come back soon.

He wasn’t wrong. Benny came lumbering back, somehow looking larger, broader, more confident than the last time Castiel saw him. Benny was whistling, like he always did when he was cooking, but the whistle dropped off the moment he caught sight of the familiar black cat in his kitchen.

Castiel knew he was a sight for sore eyes. He was beaten to hell and burned and had a red ring around his neck that could only have one cause, but Benny just looked Castiel in the eyes, his face unreadable.

“Well, shit,” he muttered. “Shit. Does Sam know you’re . . . ?”

Castiel nodded silently, eyes downcast.

“Okay. Okay. Wow. I can’t believe you’re . . . I mean, we all thought . . . “He took a deep breath and started over. “Look, I’m cooking dinner. Dean’s gonna be over in about an’ hour. You should go get cleaned up.”

Castiel sighed and took Benny’s suggestion, padding silently up the stairs to the shower. Benny pet him gently as he passed, and the kind touch made Castiel shiver.

He always hated taking showers. He hated being wet in general, but after everything that he went through -- not just today, but throughout the investigation -- he savoured the hot water like it was the world’s greatest luxury. And anyway, it wasn’t as bad if he didn’t have to deal with wet fur.

On the toilet was a set of neatly folded clothes, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile. It was almost like the years of separation never happened. It was almost like old times. Almost. In any case, the hospitality of his friends was refreshingly familiar.

It was only Autumn, but Benny had laid out a flannel shirt and a sweater for him. Castiel considered forgoing the sweater, until a shiver wracked his whole body. He needed to concentrate on his body more. It was now more difficult to tell if he was hungry or tired or cold. He just wasn’t as in tuned with himself anymore, and that, in and of itself, was perhaps the most frightening thing about the investigation.

But for now, Castiel shook his head to clear the thoughts. He could hear Benny speaking to someone downstairs. It had to be Dean. To be perfectly honest, Castiel was more than a little scared to meet Dean again after Sam’s less-than-ideal reaction, but he padded down the stairs silently in socked feet, and Dean’s jaw dropped when he saw him.

“Shit, Cas.” He immediately reached for Castiel and pulled him into a crushing hug. Castiel reciprocated in shock. Intimate gestures such as this were reserved for reunions between the brothers, Castiel had observed. Otherwise, Dean was more or less emotionally closed off.

Dean held Cas at arms length and looked him up and down. “You look like shit,” he decided. “You need -- first aid or -- something.”

“Calm down, Dean,” Benny interjected, ever the level head in situations such as this. “He’s fine. It’s all scars by now. The hair’ll grow back.”

Dean hadn’t even noticed the small bald spot behind Castiel’s ear, and Castiel levelled a glare at Benny for pointing it out.

Dean was focused on something else entirely. He reached out as if to touch Castiel, but recoiled and rubbed the hand down his face instead. “Cas, your ear,” he pointed out, referring to the very surgical removal of a portion of the top. “Does -- does that mean what I think it means?”

Castiel had no idea what Dean thought it meant, but he did think it unlikely that they were of the same mindset.

His confusion must have showed on his face, because Benny explained, “Cats usually get their ears clipped when they, ah, get ‘fixed’.”

Castiel shook his head immediately. “The Order marks every animal in their care. I may be a little beaten up, but everything is still . . . functional.” Mostly.

“You were with The Order?” Dean asked, although it was rough, more like a demand. “How long?”

Castiel looked from Dean to Benny warily. They both seemed to want answers, which meant no one told them.

“You . . . didn’t know I was with The Order?” he asked tentatively, just to be sure.

“Hell, man, we thought you were dead.”

Castiel took a deep breath and nodded. “That . . . makes a lot of sense.”

“Does Sam know you’re back?”

“Of course.” Castiel bristled a little at the insinuation that Sam was not his first priority. “I went to him first. He did not react well, and I suppose I know why now. That dragon of his . . . “ Thinking about it, Castiel both wanted to know and didn’t want to know, but the truth would gnaw at him if he didn’t ask. “Is that . . . his new familiar? Have I been replaced?”

“No!” Benny and Dean shouted in unison, as if personally offended by the idea.

“Sam could never replace you,” Benny assured.

“He wouldn’t even accept the fact that -- I mean. Look, man, we all thought you were dead. After what happened, you disappeared, and Sam was sent a box with a bunch of your stuff in it. But Sam . . . “

“He wouldn’t accept it. He couldn’t. Thinking that you could be dead broke him, petit. He made himself believe you found a new witch after The Incident.”

“The Accident,” Castiel corrected with a hint of pride. “Sam was found innocent. That’s why I’m here.”

“So, wait, they kept you holed up for the entire investigation?” Dean asked incredulously. “That’s fucked up.”

Castiel nodded in agreement but still explained, “In cases such as these where both the familiar and the witch are suspects, it is common to separate them for the duration of the investigation. But -- yes, I was locked up.”

Castiel closed his eyes and swallowed against the admission. The memory was too fresh, the acid burn that ringed his neck still stung, even though it had long since scarred over and would soon fade.

It was quiet, at least. Benny seemed to notice the change in atmosphere and kicked a chair away from the table, in Castiel’s general direction.

“Take a seat, petit chat, and we’ll have dinner. Then we can chat. We have some questions that need answering.”

“Of course,” Castiel acquiesced. He had questions of his own.

“Do you remember Cas, girl?” It was a rhetorical question. There was no way Serenity could remember Castiel, even if she could understand what Sam was asking.

Sam laughed, humourlessly, to himself, as he pulled a small box from under his bed. It was dusty and taped shut, but the tape, old as it was, did little to keep the lid on.

“He used to take care of you,” Sam continued, because if he didn’t have anyone to talk to through this, he’d break down the moment he lifted the lid to the box. “He used to take care of me too. That was before we met. There’s no way you can remember him.”

Serenity trilled and settled closer to Sam, and he patted her in thanks.

With a deep breath, and then several more, he gathered the courage to open the box and examine the contents for the first time in years. He used to do it every day and every night, several times, obsessively, but it didn’t take him long to realise that the habit only wore on him further, to the point of breaking. After that, he didn’t touch the box much, if at all.

Sam knew exactly what was inside. He could list the contents by memory:  There were some pocket spellbooks and important charms that had survived the fire, a few personal trinkets including some that were not his, but the only thing Sam saw, the only thing he cared about, was the black choker. It was still in good condition, if a little charred in places. The metal clasp was obviously burned, but it was still functional, still wearable. Sam closed his eyes and just felt the weight of it in his hand, the symbol of his and Castiel’s bond, the reason Sam’s immediate thought was that Castiel was -- that he had been --

Castiel couldn’t take the collar off, even if he had wanted to. But if he had shifted, if the collar had become a choker, that was a different story. That would have hinted that the removal was voluntary. But as it was, it all pointed to Castiel being --

Sam took a deep breath; he could think it, now that he knew it wasn’t true, now that the collar was no longer a collar -- dead. All Sam could think about when he received the package was Castiel limp and burned, some faceless member of The Order, a mage perhaps, manoeuvering Castiel’s corpse as needed to remove the collar.

That was one of the thoughts that forced the box under the bed, untouched for years.

Even now, Sam wasn’t entirely sure if he believed that Castiel was alive. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted Cas to be.

Sam closed his eyes. How shameful was that thought? But the fact was that familiars can’t live without their witches, and what better fate for such a good person -- for such a terrible death -- than to return to nature? Sam remembered begging to Order members and gods alike to have Castiel’s body returned to him, so he could bury Cas in the backyard, between the shed where Cas cared for animals and the old juniper tree from which Sam took his wand.

Well, Sam supposed he got his wish.

Serenity took a step closer, sniffing at the choker, and Sam instinctively yanked it away. Why was he so defensive of the thing? It didn’t mean anything anymore. Castiel wasn’t his anymore than he was Castiel’s. And Serenity didn’t wear a collar. When they left the house, she wore a bright yellow service vest. It was natural that she’d be curious about something she’d never seen before that seemed to cause Sam such distress.

No, he shouldn’t be dragging up old demons. Sam gently laid the choker back in the box but hesitated before placing the lid on top. Something screamed at him to take the choker, to not banish it under the bed with the books and the chalk. Sam clutched the choker in his hand tight enough to mark before throwing it into the box and shoving it under the bed, before he could change his mind.

So Castiel was alive. That was good, Sam guessed. But that just meant Sam’s other theory was true, and that made anger and sorrow bubble up in his chest like nothing else had in ages. Usually, it was fear, or anxiety. Sam forgot how addicting the feeling of anger in his veins was. He felt powerful, like he could cast any spell with perfection, and he was tempted to surround his house in a bubble of protection so no one could come in or out. But then he thought of Dean, and the idea washed away along with a majority of his anger. Left behind was a bone-deep exhaustion that Sam had been trying to ignore all day, but now it had caught up to him.

“I think it’s bedtime, Serenity,” he muttered, mostly to himself, petting the dragon’s head absently. The clock told him it was just past six, but the sun was already going down. Dinner was still on the stove, untouched except to turn off the burner. Regardless, Sam crawled into bed, Serenity flopping down right beside him, resting her head on his chest like second nature.

Sam felt like there was a heat radiating from under his bed, burning a circle into his back the exact size and shape of the choker, branding him like he deserved. But when Serenity nipped at his hand, and Sam jolted up in bed, there was nothing there. No burn marks, no scars, like there should have been. Still, the half-dream was fresh in his mind, and he found it difficult to fall asleep, even with Serenity by his side. He suspected she was part of the problem.


	2. These (and more than these)

Castiel woke up in a bed, in a real bed, with sheets and a mattress and a quilt kicked to the floor. For a moment, he could pretend that everything was a dream, that he was waking up in Sam’s bed, that years hadn’t passed between them.

But Castiel didn’t even try to pretend, because he knew he wouldn’t believe himself. He remembered the expression of terror on Sam’s face when he found Castiel on his doorstep, the way he stumbled back in panic while his protective dragon stepped forward.

Castiel sighed and stretched, just because he could. It felt like every muscle in his body was wound up like a phone cord, and he was slowly beginning to unwind them. But every time he shifted, they coiled up again. He’d have to stay in this form for a while, which would be inconvenient at best. And he couldn’t stay with Benny forever; he’d have to find somewhere else to live, possibly long-term.

Castiel heard the door open, but he didn’t pause his stretching. It felt too good. “Enjoying the view?” he asked, peering over his shoulder to see who had barged in. Of course, it was Dean. Dean was the only one who never knocked.

“You really are a cat, aren’t you?” Dean teased. “Even when you’re not actually -- y’know -- a cat.”

When Castiel stretched his back, perching on the side of the bed to better see his guest, Dean saw how thin and scarred his friend really was. Castiel was dressed in black briefs, and nothing else. Even the loosest of clothing was too constricting. But thankfully, Dean didn’t say a word about what was on his mind. Castiel wasn’t sure he could handle more criticism.

“How long was I sleeping?” he asked. Castiel felt more refreshed and well rested than he had in years, but then again, his memory wasn’t the best. He would bet everything he had -- which, given, wasn’t much -- that he woke up alert and happy every day he woke up with Sam.

“Like two and a half days,” Dean answered, stepping farther into the room and closing the door behind him. “It’s a little past noon.” Dean frowned at the dark circles that still lingered around Castiel’s eyes. “Jesus,” he hissed, “Did you get any sleep at all in -- how long has it been?”

“Four years, one month, and seven -- no -- nine days.”

“You’ve been counting this whole time?”

Castiel looked hard at Dean, glaring at his incredulous tone. “The bond between a witch and their familiar is the strongest bond that can occur between two people. When they are separated or, heaven forbid, the bond severed, they very likely go mad.” Dean tensed. Castiel pretended not to notice. There was something betrayed in Dean’s eyes, a story for another time, maybe. “Counting the days was the only way I stayed sane. I have to wonder how Sam managed without me,” he added as an afterthought, talking to himself, not Dean.

“That’s Sam’s story to tell,” Dean answered softly.

“He wants nothing to do with me.” Saying it aloud drove the chisel deeper into the cavity of his chest. His witch wanted nothing to do with him. Had their bond be severed? Surely he would have felt that.

“We’ll work on it,” Dean said empathetically, clapping his hand on Castiel’s knee. “Look, the only reason I came up here was to tell you that Benny says you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need if you help with the animals. Or you can stay with me without having to work for your room and board.”

“No, I’ll stay with Benny,” Castiel answered immediately. He needed to feel useful, and if there was anything Castiel was good at, besides his general duties as a familiar, it was taking care of animals. Benny knew that. They all knew that. Castiel needed to get back into the swing of things before he even tried to contact Sam again.

Dean eyed Castiel’s slim and injured figure again. “Are you sure you’re up for it, man? Maybe you should rest at my place for a bit, get your feet under you, before you start working again.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel insisted. “Just . . . if you could get me some clothing. Something loose -- “

“Scrubs, sweatpants . . . ?”

“Anything.”

Dean nodded, stood, and started to back his way out of the room. “You got it.”

The door clicked shut, and Castiel was alone again. The bedroom wasn’t huge, just a portion of the attic that wasn’t part of Benny’s loft, which was minimal but practical. Castiel shivered, heart pounding, and opened the one window and the door, and he could breathe a little easier.

He briefly considered shifting to climb out the window, but even the thought of it made him cringe. So he waited, obediently, on the edge of the bed, until Dean came back with an armful of pastel scrubs.

“Adjustable waistbands,” Dean said without explanation as he threw the pile at Castiel. He caught it haphazardly and frowned at the pattern that landed on top -- a light purple with yellow-eyed cats.

“We need to get some food in you, dude.  I’m pretty sure I could count your ribs if I tried.”

Castiel nodded without really hearing Dean. When Dean left, Castiel shoved the cat scrubs into the little chest at the end of the bed with unnecessary roughness, atop dusty pillows and quilts. It made sense that Dean would pick them out, Castiel tried to reason. Halloween had just passed. They were probably on sale. And Dean probably thought he was being funny. No reason to get worked up over the clothes that Dean so nicely bought for him. He shook his head of the thought. He was being silly and ungrateful, and he slipped on a set of cream scrubs with the single-minded thought of helping Benny with the animals downstairs.

If there was one thing he could do, it was help other animals. Almost like old times.

Castiel sighed and stood with some difficulty -- stiffness and joints popping like they shouldn’t, not for someone as young as he is. He’d gotten used to it by now, and what did that say?

His right hand was stiff as if sprained, or previously broken and didn’t heal correctly. Honestly, Castiel had no idea what happened to it, but he let it go and gripped the handrail at the top of the stairs with his left hand instead. He’s work around the injury, just like he has every other one. All things considered, a stiff wrist was the least of his concerns.

“Morning, petit chat,” Benny greeted as soon as Castiel was within sight. A waft of something delicious reached Castiel, but he reasoned it was probably food for the animals. Benny often insisted on cooking the food himself, sticking his nose up at the store-bought kind. The animals were often better off with the alternative anyway. It was typically close to their natural prey, if they had any.

“Good afternoon, Benny,” Castiel greeted softly, fighting the urge to lower his head and avert his eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

“Right now, I need you to sit and eat. It’s lunch break.” Benny filled two bowls and set them on the table, and Castiel could see that it was beef stew, not animal food.

“I haven’t earned a break,” Castiel argued. “Give me something to do.”

“I did. Sit and eat. We gotta get some meat on your bones, so as long as you stay with me, you’re gonna eat what I put in front of you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now eat, then you can help with the animals. When we’re done, we’re gonna exercise some of them.”

Castiel was staring at the stew, stirring it and examining the contents. “No potatoes?” he remarked.

“You don’t like them, right?” Benny asked between spoonfuls.

Castiel smiled a little to himself and filled his own spoon. “I can’t believe you remember that after all these years.”

Benny leaned across the table, his expression suddenly serious.”Castiel, we all thought you were dead, and Dean and I eventually came to terms with that. But you don’t get over it. Ever. You’ve changed, and some day, you’re gonna talk to us about that, but I remember you don’t like potatoes, and you used to work with lost-cause animals until you nursed them back to health with your own two hands. There was no such thing as a lost cause to you.” A small smile tugged at Benny’s lips, breaking the serious atmosphere. “And you hate when I call you pet names, because the only one allowed to call you anything besides your name is Sam. Sometimes Dean can get away with it, but.”

Castiel blinked. He didn’t realise he was so predictable, even after all these years.

“There were little things,” Benny continued solemnly. “We didn’t get used to not having you around for . . . a long time. Dean would visit Sam and stall when you weren’t there to clap your shoulder or scratch behind your ears. Every time I heard the doggie door open at night, I rolled my eyes, thinking it was you. It was just . . . little things. But you don’t forget them.”

Castiel was silent for a while, allowing them both to empty their bowls, before he spoke. “I understand that,” he muttered, almost too softly to be heard. “I remember that Dean has obsessive compulsive tendencies like washing his hands excessively and keeping his house organised by his standards. I remember that your house used to be blue. Now it’s yellow.”

“A lot of animals can’t see blue,” Benny explained with a smile, collecting their dishes.

“And I remember that you always do the dishes. Always. Even though you cook every night -- even if you’re a guest at someone else’s house -- you wash the dishes.”

“Mhmm,” Benny hummed from the kitchen. “What else do you remember?”

Castiel took a deep breath, willing his voice to be strong, to not falter. “I remember Sam always wore a sachet around his neck and cast protection charms every Tuesday. I can’t tell you over whom. That would break the charms. And I remember he always, always carried around his first spellbook, worn and dogeared and falling apart. He never needed to reference it, but he carried it around everywhere. And he’s fond of rosemary and chives. Is he still vegetarian? I suppose that doesn’t really matter.” Castiel deflated. He remembered everything about Sam, but he stopped there.

“Give me something to do,” so I don’t have to think, went unsaid but was understood.

“Course,” Benny said sympathetically. “Follow me. I’ll show you how we group the animals for exercise.”

Castiel followed obediently, peering at the stacks and stacks of cages, varying in size from large enough to hold a mastiff comfortably to small enough to contain the smallest turtle Castiel had ever seen. About half of them were full. Castiel had an affinity for working with animals, as most familiars did, but something felt wrong. Very wrong. He felt sick and, at first, thought maybe something in the stew wasn’t agreeing with him, but Benny never made bad food.

“So the mild-mannered ones are over here,” Benny was explaining, “Closer to the door. We work with the more violent ones too, but separately, for obvious reasons.”

They passed a birdcage that held a single bird, beautiful and small, but Castiel couldn’t identify it. It was peeping and squawking and flying restlessly and recklessly around the cage, banging against the wire in a way that made Castiel cringe. He stalled completely. This bird. There was a small ring around its foot. Not a tag, just a tiny unmarked golden ring.

This bird. Just looking at it hurt, and it was such a familiar hurt that Castiel could not let it slide. He refused to let this one suffer.

Castiel crouched to the height of the cage and carefully gripped two of the wires of the cage between his fingers. The small bird still squawked and flew, but once it caught sight of Castiel, it slowly stopped. The moment Castiel made eye contact with the bird, he knew. He knew, and so did the bird.

“Castiel?” Benny called in confusion. “We don’t take that one out. It’s too excitable.”

“We need to let this one go,” Castiel responded firmly. “Now.”

“Castiel -- “

“How long has she been here?”

The intensity in Castiel’s voice started Benny. “About two weeks. Had a broken wing.”

“Where is the key to this cage?” Castiel demanded, fire in his eyes. Dumbstruck, Benny handed over a small silver key.

“Works for all the bird cages,” he explained, but Castiel wasn’t listening.

“Get a towel or a robe or something.” Castiel fumbled with the lock in his haste and immediately dropped the lock and key. The moment the cage was open, the bird flew straight into Castiel’s hands. “Almost,” he whispered. “There’s no room here. Let’s go somewhere else. Almost, I promise.”

Castiel pushed past Benny to the door leading outside, grabbing the towel from the stunned man.

Castiel kneeled in the grass. “Let me allow you some modesty,” he whispered to the bird in his cupped hand. He set it gently on the soft grass and covered it with the less-than-soft towel.

“Castiel, what the hell -- ?” Benny called, following him belatedly only to stop in his tracks, staring, mouth agape, at the woman standing in his yard, skin black as night contrasted against the white-ish towel she was wrapped in. Her eyes were decorated with the most elaborate designs, greens and blues and purples, and Benny couldn’t tell if her golden eyeliner was applied perfectly, or if there really were feathers lining her eyes. She was crying, but the makeup didn’t smudge in the least, and Benny was a little embarrassed that it took him this long to realise she was a familiar.

“Thank you,” she was saying, over and over. “Thank you thank you thank you. I was locked in there for so long. I couldn’t shift.”

Castiel stood. He was dwarfed by the woman. “Why were you here? Were you hurt?”

She nodded tearfully. “I was delivering a message for my witch and -- and on my way back, I broke my wing. Your friend -- “ she glanced over Castiel’s head at Benny, “took good care of me, but he didn’t know. Oh, Lord, thank you. How did you know?”

Castiel’s mouth went dry. He wouldn’t tell his story. Not now, not ever. It wasn’t important. He spoke so Benny wouldn’t hear. “I am also a familiar who was separated from my witch. Who -- who was constrained, much like you were. I could feel your pain a mile away.”

“God bless you,” the woman sobbed thankfully. “Have you found your witch?”

Castiel ignored the question. “Do you know where yours is? Can you get there safely?”

The familiar just nodded and, with one last sincere, tearful thank you, shifted again and flew off.

Castiel watched her go in awe, feeling the hollow ache in his chest ease just a little. He wondered if Benny frequently picked up injured familiars and just had no idea. It was unlikely, but a possibility. Castiel felt like he accomplished something good.

He was startled by Benny’s hand on his shoulder and turned to meet his eyes. There was a kind of sadness there that Castiel could not identify.

“Brother,” Benny started slowly. “What happened to you?


	3. A Cat, A Boy (and a graveyard)

Memory projections were a bitch to deal with. If Sam weren’t a witch, it’d probably be labelled PTSD, but it’s not the same. It’s similar, but not the same.

After four years of suspension and isolation, Sam had time to hone his magic to near perfection. He could cast any spell and brew any potion with an average of 95% success.

Now, curled up by the fire, bundled up in sweaters and blankets with Serenity to keep him company, Sam thought about casting a shield around his house -- not to keep others out, but to keep him in. But he was already too far gone for that. He was a powerful witch of The Order, one of the best, but no matter how hard he tried, he had no control over memory projection. It happened seemingly spontaneously, with no warning and no pattern as to when it started or ended or what memory he relived. Sometimes it was a good memory. More often than not, it was a nightmare. Serenity’s job was to make sure he didn’t act on anything.

“It’s so cold,” he muttered, the memory speaking, not him. “So cold.”

His teeth chattered even as Serenity blew hot air over him. It didn’t help. Sam was breaking into a cold sweat, eyes open but glassy as he curled in on himself further.

_He knocks on the door. Pounds, really, and gets no response. “SAMMY!” His throat is tight, but he manages to shout anyway. “SAMMY!” When he gets no response, he kicks the door once, twice, before it breaks open, and he storms into the house._

_His eyes are blurry -- tears. Hot and heavy tears obstructing his vision as he spins around, searching. Finding nothing, he half-runs through the halls, checking every room._

Sam was vaguely aware of a solid weight on his chest.

_He comes back to the main area in the house and takes the stairs two at a time, trying to take the last three at once and tripping, but he doesn’t let that slow him. There are several rooms upstairs, but he’s focused on just one._

“It’s enchanted,” Sam muttered as he, through Dean’s eyes, tries to kick this door down too. “It’s enchanted, you can’t get in.”

_After a long while, he finally stops trying to break in the door and leans against it, body wracking with sobs and a deep, deep pain in his heart that even the freezing cold can’t touch. He turns and slides down the door until he’s sitting, but still facing the door so he can talk through it._

_“Sammy, please,” he begs._

_Before he can even specify what he’s begging for, there’s a weak, muffled, “No,” through the door._

_“Sammy, please! I need you! Benny needs you! There are people who care about you, dammit!”_

_There’s the sound of something dragging across the floor, a soft thud that settles behind the door._

_“Please,” he continues. “We just lost a friend, Sammy. We can’t . . . I can’t lose you too.”_

_Soft, almost inaudible, from the other side of the door comes Sam’s own voice:  “I can’t do this anymore, Dean. It hurts. It hurts too much.”_

_“I know it hurts. Look, you’re not the only one who lost Cas, but -- “_

_“No, you don’t understand! Cas wasn’t -- he wasn’t just my friend. He was my familiar, and I loved him. You don’t understand.”_

_He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, bites the tip of his tongue, but the tears cascade down his face anyway, unstoppable. “Fine. Fine, you’re right, I don’t understand, but goddammit, Sammy, I don’t want to, okay?!” He’s shouting now. “I -- shit -- Sammy, I don’t want to lose a friend and my brother all in one go, okay?”_

_A beat of hesitation. Two. Then, “I can’t stop, Dean. I can’t. It’s too late.”_

_Those words send a stabbing pain through his heart, and even though he suspects -- prays -- that they’re a lie, deep down, he knows he has nothing magical to his name and no way of knowing._

_“Then at least let me see you.”_

_“Dean -- “_

_“If this is goodbye, I at least deserve to see my brother’s face for the last time!”_

_He feels like he’s going to throw up, and the following silence does nothing to help. But then, just as he thinks he might curl up here on the floor and die alongside his brother, the door opens just a sliver. It catches him off guard, but it’s just enough for him to barge in. Ignoring Sam’s protests, he erases every bit of chalk he can find on the floors and the walls. He smothers an enchanted fire that’s burning colder than any snow or ice he has ever felt, and when it’s done, he turns to his brother._

_Sam looks miserable -- pale and tired, lips blue, shivering, and ice almost to his hips. But damn if he’s going to let a bunch of chalk take his brother away._

Slowly, Sam began to return to the present, his eyes still a little glassy as he stared at the ceiling.“Thank God,” he whispered, not his own words, but his brother’s.

Sam remembers how Dean held him close and rocked as the ice melted away, muttering, “Thank God, thank God,” over and over into Sam’s skin. Sam’s wounds were still fresh then, his legs a center point of pain as they returned to muscle and bone, blood rushing to them so quickly it made Sam dizzy, and the angle of the hug did nothing to alleviate any of the pain encompassing his entire being -- mind, body, and what was left of his soul. But, Sam remembered, from his own side of the story, feeling like a kid again, the first time he hurt himself with magic, and it scared both himself and Dean. Neither of their parents were there, so it was all Dean could do to hold Sam as he cried. Dean was only a kid at the time. What was he supposed to do? Sam remembered feeling the same helplessness and fear that he did then.

Sam suddenly became aware of his body and of his surroundings. He was sweating profusely but just laid there, still staring at the ceiling. Dean would be here soon. He had learned to detect memory projection by now, and he’d be over to make sure Sam was alright.

Sam hated that memory. When he projected onto himself, he felt empty and hopeless and alone. When he projected off Dean, he felt every moment of panic, even though there was nothing Sam could do with it besides let it stew silently inside himself while Serenity ensured he didn’t do anything stupid.

But that particular memory. That one was probably the worst. That was the day he gave up, the cavity in his chest too large and too painful.

That was only a little over a week after Sam found out about Castiel’s death.

Just as he predicted, Dean opened the door, saw Sam lying there, and immediately went into panic mode.

“I’m fine,” Sam assured before Dean could even drop to his knees to check. Serenity gave an indignant squawk but stepped back to let Dean look his brother over.

“I’m fine,” Sam repeated a little more firmly. “It was just memory projection. You know how those get.” Sam sat up and stretched to reach a jar on the mantelpiece, full of little treats for the service dragon. “Serenity did a great job of making sure I didn’t hurt anyone or anything. Good girl,” he praised, giving Serenity a treat that she chewed on gleefully.

“What memory was it?” Dean asked, like he always did. Sometimes it was just little stuff like being curled up together in the backseat of the impala, or laughing over drinks at Benny’s. But more often than not, the memories were heavy and dark:  The car crash, The Incident, Sam freezing, so freezing, so painful, but it’s so difficult to kill a witch.

“It was nothing,” Sam lied. “You were cooking in my kitchen -- burgers, maybe, I don’t know -- and Serenity had to hold me down to keep me from burning the house down. Good girl,” he repeated with a little pat on her head. She looked confused, but didn’t make a sound.

Dean looked like he didn’t believe Sam, but he let it slide. There was no way for Dean to tell anyway; he didn’t have natural magic like Sam and their mom did, and he took after their dad and didn’t practise it. But he had a strong enough connection to Sam to realise when something like this was going on.

“Do you need a hand?” Dean offered instead of pressing the topic.

Sam wordlessly grabbed Dean’s hand in his own and pulled. Sam stumbled clumsily into Dean -- so he was a little weak in the knees; it happened when these projections took him by surprise.

“Thanks,” he breathed.

“You okay?”

“Great. I think I just need to rest. We still on for poker tonight at Benny’s?”

Dean’s shoulders squared up, his spine a clear line of tension. Sam could feel the stress hitting him like waves of heat.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Dean answered, straightforward as always. If Dean wasn’t harbouring a massive secret, he was cut and dry, and today, he was the latter. “Castiel is staying with Benny, helping with the animals.”

All the air in Sam’s lungs evacuated with one long hard sigh. Castiel. Caught up in the projection, Sam had almost forgotten. Castiel was alive. Not only alive, but here, in Sam’s town. Why? Why wasn’t he with some more competent, less complicated witch? Why wasn’t he working for The Order? Why wasn’t he anywhere but here?

“Right,” Sam muttered. “Cas.”

“I think you need to talk to him, Sam,” Dean suggested, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Benny said Castiel talked to another familiar the other day, and he mentioned some fucked up shit. I don’t know what happened to him after the fire, but man, if you could see him . . . I don’t think he was with another witch, like -- like you said he might be.”

Sam looked down at his hands. Yes, his excuse for Castiel’s absence:  Castiel must have found another witch and stayed with them, nice and safe and happy. It was better than the alternative answer, even though it hurt almost as much.

The bond between a witch and their familiar was the most powerful bond on Earth. That had been drilled into Sam’s head at school, amongst other things, but he didn’t believe it until Castiel found him. He didn’t believe it until Castiel came into his life, stayed just long enough to love him, and then disappeared again.

Sam felt like half a person when he came to terms with the fact that Castiel was dead. He felt like an incomplete puzzle piece or a picture torn in half, because Castiel was gone, the bond severed, and Sam was never getting him back.

“I’ll talk to him,” Sam acquiesced, “but not now. I can’t . . . I don’t think I can right now.”

 

Except now Castiel was back, and Sam didn’t know what to do. His head was a twister, a hurricane of confusion and conflict, and Sam hadn’t realised he’d fallen to his knees until Dean was hauling him to his feet, asking him to breathe, to focus, Serenity at his side silently suggesting the same thing.

Dean dragged them out of the house, and the wind conjured from Sam’s distress did not follow them, but Dean did hear glass shattering somewhere inside and cringed. This was where the 5% of Sam’s control slipped, and he accidentally let the storm in his head out into his house.

The wind was slowing gradually, gently, as Serenity did as she was trained to do and helped Sam get a grip on his magic.

“I don’t know what to do, Dean,” Sam muttered. “I just . . . don’t know what to do.”

Dean was never good with dealing with the emotional side of anything, even when it came to Sam. He was all action, no talk, so Dean hauled Sam to his feet once more and said, “C’mon poker at Benny’s. We’ll lock Cas in his room or something.”

 


	4. Closer

Castiel could not sit still. He writhed and shifted on the bed, every ounce of his self-restraint going towards not flinging his door open and going downstairs, to where he knew Sam was. Castiel could smell him, could hear his laughter, could feel the pull in his chest as if there were a string wrapped around his heart connecting him directly to Sam.

But they said Sam wasn’t ready to talk to him. Sam was in a bad mental state (and whose fault was that? Certainly not his own, nor those lost in the fire. That only leaves one. No wonder he doesn’t want to speak to you) and just needed to stick to his routines for a while. Routines and patterns helped Sam immensely, more than anyone could have hoped when they tried to get Sam back on his feet. Castiel, assumed dead, showing up at his doorstep and telling him his suspension is over? That was probably the biggest wrench anyone could have thrown into the cogs, and Sam just shut down.

They -- Dean and Benny -- promised gradual change. Sam wasn’t fragile or weak or anything like that, but he was traumatised. He was a survivor. And more than anything, he just needed space right now.

Castiel understood that intimately. Even before The Accident, Sam was an introvert, more than a little anxious in social situations. Oh, he knew how to talk his way through almost anything, but it left him exhausted and tired of company. Sometimes that included Castiel. The familiar knew how to take care of his witch and watched at the window as Sam slept or wrote or did whatever it was he needed to do to calm himself down.

Castiel knew how to take care of Sam, and right now, the burning need to do just that was almost overwhelming, but what Sam needed now, what taking care of him entailed, was for Castiel to leave him alone.

He wrapped himself in the sheets like a cocoon, hoping it would at least dampen his fidgeting. No such luck. He was like -- Lord, what a horrible analogy -- but he was like a recovering addict, several years clean, faced with his addiction once again. Would he cave like he so desperately wanted to? Could he even resist the temptation?

Surely Sam felt it too. Surely Sam was downstairs fidgeting just like Castiel was, because he could sense Castiel so close.

Castiel couldn’t stand to hope like this. He’d been hoping and praying for over four years, and now he needed to know. He untangled himself from his web of sheets and stumbled gracelessly to the door. The handle did not turn.

No.

No, they didn’t lock him in here. Maybe the door was just jammed or something. But no matter how he turned the handle or shook or shoved, it didn’t budge. He was locked in.

A very prominent, very fresh part of his brain began to stir up panic. He was locked in, trapped for who knew how long. The air was already beginning to smell and taste stale.

With a deep breath, Castiel pushed the thoughts away and, steeling himself for the change, he shifted. The world quickly became much larger, much louder, much busier, but less colourful.

Castiel’s skin was crawling in this form, but he had to know. He had to see Sam.

The gap under the door was just wide enough for him to squeeze through. Then again, he wasn’t a very large cat to begin with. The pull-down ladder provided a bit of a problem, but if there was anything Castiel was sure of, it was that he could make himself fit anywhere. Part of it was magic; part of it was just being a cat.

There was a hole in the wood he could slip through, a knot previously removed. It plopped him right at the top of the stairs down to where Sam, Dean, and Benny all sat. And, Castiel could see, his hackles raising, the dragon was seated in Sam’s lap, dressed in a brightly coloured vest. Castiel, black as night, sneaked silently down the stairs, as far as the shadows would take him. Apparently, that was far enough to see everything. Only a little bit of Dean was cut from Castiel’s vision when he leaned back in his chair.

Dean huffed and threw two cards on the table. “Two pair.”

Benny smirked around the toothpick he was chewing on and laid down five cards. “Straight.”

“I swear, you cheat,” Dean accused. “You’re never dealing again.”

Benny ignored him, but his mischievous smirk only grew as he turned his attention to Sam. “What’re you holdin’, sugar?”

Castiel could only see a little of Sam’s face, a little more when he nervously brushed his hair behind his ears and blinked quickly. “Uh.” Three cards. “Three of a kind. Benny gets it.”

The dragon nudged Sam in concern the same time Benny said, “Hold on there, Sam, you got a full house there. That beats mine.”

“I knew you were cheating!” Once again, Dean was ignored.

Sam shifted in his seat, the dragon nuzzled him gently, and Castiel had to smother a hiss that threatened to rise from his throat. Sam was his, dammit. And he was Sam’s. Always, forever, and only Sam’s.

When Sam spoke again, his voice was soft, and he leaned towards the middle of the table. “Are you sure Cas is in his room?”

“Damn sure,” Benny answered. “Locked him up there when he said he was gonna sleep.”

“The guy spends half the day asleep,” Dean added, “Whether he’s a cat or not. Why’re you asking?”

“I don’t know, I just . . . “ Sam squirmed again, clutching the dragon closer. “I can feel him here. It’s too much. This is too much.”

“Okay, Sam, that’s fine,” Benny was reassuring as Castiel was slinking back into the shadows, attempting to get back to his room before anyone noticed.

“I’m gonna walk Sam home,” Dean voice carried up the stairs. “Maybe poker night should be at my house next time.”

Castiel didn’t hear any affirmation or dissent from Benny or Sam, but he did feel the connection between them get weaker the farther away Sam moved. When it was weak enough that it was barely an itch under his skin, Castiel berated himself for giving into his urges. He shifted back and kicked the sheets to the floor, followed by the fitted sheet, and he wrapped them all around himself. Claustrophobia be damned, it was a chilly night. The air was cool and crisp as autumn air should be, and Castiel could breathe.

Which was more important, Castiel wondered:  Reestablishing their bond, becoming partners in magic again . . . or doing what was best for Sam, even if that meant making himself disappear, for good this time? Shouldn’t being reunited with his familiar be what’s best for Sam? Shouldn’t that ease his troubles, rather than cause more?

Despite Dean’s opinion, Castiel did not sleep half the day, even as a cat, but that night, he didn’t sleep at all.

 


	5. (crippling) Machine

Sam felt the weak remnants of his bond with Castiel long after Dean left with a tentative smile and a reminder for their plans for the weekend.

Sam felt the bond, and he wanted to . . . he wanted to . . .

It was so overwhelming, he could vomit. He slid down the door to sit, but Serenity tugged his arm insistently until he stood again. She led Sam to his bedroom, misreading his distress as sleepiness, but he laid down anyway and called her a good girl and let her curl up with her head resting on his chest.

It wasn’t just the bond, Sam knew. It was never that simple, was it? It was the bond and the grief and the revelation and the joy and the something else that always lingered there, that they were always too afraid to act upon until the very day before The Incident.

If ever there was a mistake Sam wished he could erase from his life -- just a single mistake -- it would be that one. Karma, he thought, and Serenity peeped because his breathing hitched.

“One second, girl,” he soothed, sliding out of bed so he could drag out the box from under it again. His hand was immediately drawn to the choker -- the choker? It was a collar. Why had Castiel shifted?

Sam didn’t want to think too much on it. The thought of Castiel was pervasive -- it invaded nearly every moment of every day, but he refused to obsess over his familiar.

Yes, Sam had decided that Castiel was still his familiar, even now. Their bond hadn’t been broken; their statuses hadn’t changed.

Sam rubbed his fingers over the soft, well-loved strip of leather -- black as night, just like Castiel. Sam had wanted a blue one, to match his eyes, but Castiel had insisted on black, because what if he needed to hide or sneak around? A blue collar would be noticeable to anybody.

The collar shifted in Sam’s hand, back to the choker, jolting him from the memory and making him wonder, again, what Castiel was up to.

With barely a beat of hesitation, Sam put the choker on his bedside table and shoved everything else back under the bed before crawling back onto the mattress and settling back into a position to sleep, much to Serenity’s contentment.

Sam heaved a great sigh and, for the first time in a long time, fell slowly into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

:::

Sam tried to ignore Serenity's pitiful whines as he scratched her through a small crack in the door. She pawed at him, but Sam still shook his head.

"No, girl, I really need to be alone right now."

He wasn't used to saying those words, to needing solitude. He hadn't needed that feeling in years (four years, Sam. Four), and Serenity was trained to never leave Sam's side. He felt a little guilty closing the door between them, but the click of the door shutting silenced Serenity's whines and scratches against the door.

This was his magic room. Sound-proofed, protected from outside energies, just a safe space for Sam to meditate or cast spells or brew potions undisturbed.

He heaved a great sigh and swallowed down the lump in his throat. Why was he so nervous? This was his safe space, yet he felt like he was going to throw up.

Sam placed the choker -- Cas’s choker -- on the table in the centre of the room, absently rubbing his hand where the design was imprinted into his skin.

Sam couldn’t remember the last time he cast a protection charm on his familiar. (Yes he could. It was almost a full month before The Incident, and that was a guilt pill that Sam had yet to swallow.) But it was Tuesday, and when he felt Cas’s energy -- so strong, so close -- it felt . . . broken. Injured. Beaten down. That’s why it had been too much on poker night. Sam could handle the distant energy of his familiar from across the house, but to feel him so hurt? In such pain?

The reality was that Cas was back, and he was hurting. Even if Sam couldn’t handle being in the same room with him, the least Sam could do was try and protect him.

The charm was simple, second nature by now. He drew his circle of sigils in yellow and green sidewalk chalk, hesitating for one moment over the red. Would it matter if he used red instead of yellow? Would it weaken or break the charm?

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath, sat cross-legged in the middle of the circle. _Criss-cross applesauce_ , Dean used to say. _Snip snap, hands in lap_. He picked it up from their mother and taught it to his little brother, thinking it was just to keep them both out of the way and out of trouble, and having no idea that he was teaching Sam the most basic magic.

Sam might as well be walking leisurely down the street, the magic came so easily to him. He barely noticed it flowing through his veins, being released as pure energy into the air, towards its target -- the owner of the choker. It was over as quickly as it started, and Sam wondered if Cas could feel the magic working in him. He hoped not. The spell would be broken if the subject knew about it.

Sam didn’t stand immediately. Even with the spell completed, he couldn’t make himself stand, staring at the choker in front of him like it was keeping a secret from him.

Sam didn’t specialise in contagious magic. He didn’t like the practise in general, finding that most witches abused the power. He’d known people who were hurt or killed by both malicious witches and careless non-witches playing with voodoo dolls.

But . . . Sam could make one exception. He didn’t have a whole lot of experience with contagious magic and brushed the dust off his one and only textbook on the subject. He just wanted a connection. No good, no harm, just knowledge. Just feeling. The spell looked simple enough, just a little oil brew and some Latin. Sam could handle that. It was elementary magic.

He rubbed the oil into the choker, thinking this would be a much easier task if it were the collar, rinsed it in a bowl of Holy water, enunciated the incantation just to make sure he got it right.

There was no time to wonder; the effect was immediate, the pain in Cas’s energy ten times stronger than it had been the other night. Sam dropped the choker like a burning coal, flinging it to the other side of the room and breathing heavily. He could easily get Serenity in here, have her help him calm down, but the need for solitude won over.

Sam took deep, calming breaths, head between his knees. The pain was so intense that Sam could feel every level of it. Cas hurt all over, even where his wounds had scarred over. That was psychosomatic. His heart hurt, the same empty, hollow hurt that Sam felt four years ago, that Sam still feels now.

But beneath the thick, dense layers of pain, there was hope. Love. Determination.

Sam let a single silent sob shake him before he laid down on the cool floor and urged his heart to slow. He was falling all over again.

 


	6. (this is how) I Let You Down

 

These days, Castiel either woke up with a gasp of breath, finding that he had been holding it in his sleep, or to Benny shaking him awake because his nightmares were too audible. It’s one or the other, and Castiel wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Tonight, Benny’s vice grip on his shoulders was the first thing Castiel felt, his friend’s concerned face the first thing he saw.

Castiel breathed deeply and assessed the situation. He was warm, despite the window that was propped open. His sheets, which were a comforting cocoon when Castiel fell asleep, were now hopelessly twisted around him. But he was still warm.

“We’ve gotta talk about this,” Benny whispered, even though they were the only two in the house. He released Castiel’s shoulders and, arms trapped in the web of blankets, he fell back to the bed with a small poof of the fluffy pillows and soft mattress. Castiel freed himself slowly, avoiding Benny’s statement. Everyday was a new nightmare, and although he never remembered them when he awoke, Castiel knew exactly what they were about. He had lived them; he didn’t need the nightly remembrance.

“Castiel.”

“It’s not important.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Benny snapped, taking a seat on the edge of the bed when Castiel had sorted out the blankets and covered himself again. Warmth. That’s all that mattered right now.

“This happens every night,” Benny pressed. “You’re not getting any sleep, and it shows, okay? I wasn’t going to say anything, but when you walk the dogs like you’re a zombie, jus’ lettin’ yourself be tugged along, that’s a problem.”

“Benny,” Castiel whispered, closing his eyes tightly, willing the thrumming fear in his veins to disappear and failing. “Sam is in distress because I am here. But I can’t leave him. If he told me to, I would, in a heartbeat, and you would never see me again. But right now . . . he’s hurting, but he seems willing to try to work this out. Whatever ‘this’ is. Sam’s health and safety are a million times more important than mine.”

“Castiel -- “

“What terrorizes me at night is not of import,” he asserted with a little more venom than he intended. “As long as Sam is happy, I’ll gladly suffer every minute of every day. If my nightmares bother you, then kick me out.”

“I’m not gonna do that to ya.”

“I’ll still gladly help you run your shelter, whether I stay with Dean or find my own place. This was never meant to be a permanent solution, Benny.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Benny bit. “You’re supposed to stay here until you and Sam can live together again.”

Castiel’s brows furrowed, and he frowned in confusion. “We never agreed to those terms.”

“Well, Dean and I did. Listen, you two -- you and Sam -- you’re both screwed up, and fuck us if we know why. Dean an’ I don’t got an ounce of magic in our blood, but we’re here for you two. We always have been, but it ain’t no use if you’re both keeping secrets.”

Castiel didn’t answer. Sam was keeping secrets from his friends? That was very uncharacteristic of him, and immediately, concern welled in his chest. Was Castiel’s mere presence enough to coerce Sam into doing something stupid?

Benny sighed and glanced at the analog clock on the bedside table when Castiel didn’t reply. “It’s late,” he said. “Get some sleep. But this isn’t over. I swear, it’s like pullin’ teeth with you two, but you’re gonna tell us what’s wrong.”

Castiel was about to argue -- nothing was wrong. Or, at least, what was wrong didn’t matter. It was Sam, only Sam, that they needed to focus on -- until Benny added, “Starting with what you mentioned to that little birdie of a familiar.”

On that note, Benny left, leaving the door open like Castiel had requested, but it suddenly wasn’t enough. Castiel felt boxed in, an incessant itch under his skin and the beginnings of panic welling in his lungs. Without thinking, he shifted and jumped out the window and onto the grass below. His stiff paw stung a little, but he ignored it. This wasn’t just about feeling claustrophobic. Fixing that would not scratch the itch that was so constant, so intense, Castiel could cry.

He found himself at Sam’s house. Of course. Way back when everything was good and nothing was more complicated than a spell Sam just couldn’t crack, Castiel would be sleeping in Sam’s bed, curled on his chest as a cat or pressed to his side, one hand over Sam’s heart as a human.

Castiel sneaked to the back, where he knew Sam’s bedroom was. There was a single window there, the curtains pulled mostly shut, but it was enough that, when Castiel jumped to the window sill, he could see Sam sleeping.

Cats don’t cry -- they physically cannot -- but Castiel couldn’t help the noise of distress that seemed to come from his very core. Sam was beautiful, sleeping peacefully, what little moonlight that filtered through the curtains accentuating his features. There was a punch of vanity, to be sure, that this beautiful creature was no longer his, but a majority of Castiel’s distress was that damn dragon.

She was stretched out on the bed, her head resting on Sam’s chest. When Sam’s breath hitched once in his sleep, her head immediately perked up, staring at Sam in concern until his breathing returned to normal.

Castiel wanted nothing more than to go back to his bed at Benny’s house and cry, to release even a little bit of his suffering before sleeping, as Benny had suggested. But he didn’t. He sat there at Sam’s window, watching him sleep, until the very first hint of dawn on the horizon drew him away.

And then, safe back in Benny’s attic, he did cry. There was nothing he could do to stop his tears. They were inevitable, and they came loudly and in rivers. This had never happened before. Never in his life had Castiel cried like this, never had he needed to, but after so much grief and pain, and four years of being unable to express his anguish, the tears came naturally as breathing. Castiel smothered his sobs into one of the pillows, lying down on the floor because he felt he didn’t deserve the bed. It was colder here, but he barely noticed.

Castiel was Sam’s familiar. The entire point of his existence was to assist and protect Sam at all costs. And now -- now not only is he failing at that, but Sam has found another to take his place. A mere animal, but one that was obviously doing a better job taking care of Sam than Castiel ever had. So what if the dragon wasn’t a familiar? He was still . . . He didn’t even want to think it, but it was true.

Castiel had been replaced.

A witch may carry on after the loss of a familiar, and obviously Sam, one of the lucky few to be chosen by a familiar, had. Slowly and clearly painfully, but he had moved on. But a familiar without their witch is nothing. They have no purpose, and Castiel could feel the unbearable pain in his chest and knew he would die here on the floor of a broken heart. That’s what happened to familiars -- well, familiars like him. He was nothing. Nothing to Sam, nothing to anyone, because he had failed, and he let his witch go.

Why did Sam even want to reconcile? Or did he want to at all? Maybe Castiel was only seeing what he wanted to see. Sam hadn’t asked him to leave, nor had Benny or Dean, as Castiel knew they would if that was what Sam wanted. Maybe Sam was just being nice, letting Castiel stay here because he knows the familiar doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

Well, there was no maybe about that. Sam really was too kind for his own good sometimes.

Castiel would never tell a soul about what happened those four years they were separated. He had promised himself that much. But all that time in incarceration, with no company of any kind except for the two, and only two, times they let him out for the investigation -- all that time, the only thing that kept Castiel from breaking entirely was the thought of Sam. He had to get back to Sam, make sure he was okay. Castiel counted the days on the walls, and even when days turned into weeks and months and years, the only thing keeping Castiel whole and alive and fighting was the thought of returning to Sam.

Now. Now, what was keeping him alive and fighting? He thought the scars and burns that would never fully heal were his punishment. He’d be forced to bear these marks for abandoning his witch for so long.

But no. All the torture and the suffering, the scars and burns and his clipped ear, it was nothing if not a sign. He shouldn’t have survived the fire. A familiar who’s been replaced. A familiar without his witch. He was nothing.

And yet, here he was. Why was he still here? Why was he not dead yet? Maybe it’s meant to be a long, torturous process. Maybe the heart doesn’t break straight away, but crumbles bit by bit.

More importantly, if he had been replaced, why didn’t he die years ago and save himself the suffering? It must have been because the dragon was not a familiar, so his bond with Sam was not severed. Had Castiel never returned, he never would have learned that he had been replaced, he never would have felt this pain, and he never would have found himself dying on his friend’s attic floor.

Castiel’s thoughts became circular, and it only served to perpetuate his loud, body-wracking sobs, even long after he ran out of tears. The thoughts never stopped, but at some point, his body gave up on him, and he slept.

:::

Benny found Castiel the next morning, curled into a ball on the floor and clutching a pillow for dear life. With a world-weary sigh, he carefully lifted the familiar and laid him in bed.

His petite chat was not okay. His friend Castiel was not okay.


	7. Forget (it's a dream)

Since he had cast the contagious spell on Cas’s choker, Sam had been slowly trying to acclimate himself to the wave of emotion and energy that overwhelmed him when he touched it. Today, he decided to try and wear it, wrapping the braided leather twice around his wrist with a little difficulty, gritting his teeth against the onslaught of pain and --

Wait. Something was wrong. Sam controlled his breathing as he tried to process Cas’s energy:  The pain was still there, yes, a suffering of mind, body, and soul, but what was lacking was the hope and determination that always, always lingered, no matter how intense or dull the pain became. And today, the pain was almost unbearable.

It was just gone. All Sam was getting was an endless void of hopelessness and resignation. Something was seriously wrong.

He had to call Dean or Benny or -- fuck -- anyone. He’d go over and check on Cas himself if he had to.

“Shit,” Sam bit under his breath, his knees going weak, too weak to support him, and he collapsed gracelessly by the island in the kitchen. He struggled to get the choker off, vision swimming, fingers fumbling. Sam recognised a memory projection when he felt one, but he didn’t want this. He felt guilty enough for casting contagious magic; the last thing he wanted was to be in Cas’s head.

“Serenity!” he called needlessly, as the dragon was already by his side when he went down.

Then, he wasn’t at home at all. Nor in Dean’s or Benny’s.

_He's in a cell. It's unlike any kind he's ever seen -- dark and solid, no windows or bed but a small caged door at the front. He could probably squeeze through any gap in any cell, but this is different. It feels different. This is not an escapable situation._

_His entire body aches, there is something around his neck, like a collar, too tight and abrasive and burning. There is a smothering magic surrounding him, a binding sort, perhaps. Maybe on the bars so Cas can’t squeeze through or the lock to he can’t pick it. Whatever it is, it’s oppressive, and he feels like he can’t breathe. This is powerful magic._

_He can’t breathe and it’s dark and he’s punched with such longing that he has to curl up at the back of the cell -- it pulses with every beat of his racing heart, ‘Sam, Sam, Sam . . . ‘_

_‘Please let Sam be safe.’_

_‘I’m coming for you, I swear.’_

_‘Please be okay.’_

_‘I’m so sorry.’_

Sam's eyes, glassy as they were with the projection, filled with tears.

_His eyes adjust quickly to the darkness. Too quickly for a human, which means --_

A cat carrier.

_Suddenly, he can see the scratches on the walls and even the floor. Not just mindless scratches, as if Cas has tried to escape, but neat, organised tally marks._

_He’s nothing but a ball of pain, and he makes a desperate, frankly pathetic noise. The light turns on, and the carrier is shaken for his troubles._

_“Shut up in there!” someone hisses. “You’ll wake up the others!” They don’t so much as look into the cell. But there’s the sound of metal doors being opened, food bowls being filled. Something leaks into the carrier from a crack at the top, and he curls farther in on himself to avoid it._

_The person leaves after they’re done, without touching the cat carrier, and the light goes off again._

_When his eyes adjust once more, he uncurls a little. The person comes in every morning, he knows, so it must be morning again. He extends one claw and adds a tally mark to the right-hand wall, which is covered with tightly-packed scratches. He counts, then adds one to the opposite wall. He counts those. Then, in something akin to horror, counts them again, slower, but it’s the same number. With a sinking heart, he draws one last line on the floor._

_One year._

_‘Sam, I know you’re alive,’ he thinks like a prayer. ‘I can still feel you. I hope you can feel me too. Don’t give up on me.’_

There was more, but it faded slowly, until Sam could no longer focus on it, and reality finally came to light. Sam took a deep, shuddering breath, staring right through his brother for a minute before he could focus again.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean whispered. He looked close to tears himself. “You haven’t had one that bad in a long time. Are you okay? Did you hit your head when you fell? God, if Serenity hadn’t gotten me -- “

“Something’s wrong,” Sam interrupted, as monotone as if he were still in a trance. Then, again, with a little bit of panic, “Something’s wrong, Dean.”

His voice was rough with emotion. _I hope you can feel me too. Don’t give up on me._ Isn’t that exactly what Sam had done? Give up on Cas? Isn’t that why they were in this situation?

Dean’s hands found his hair, brushing the sweaty locks from his face and forcing Sam to look at him.

“Sam, be straight with me.” Dean’s voice was firm, but his expression betrayed his concern. “Did you have another vision?”

Sam hadn’t had premonitions in years. At least, not natural ones. He sometimes cast divination spells, but that was different. Even their parents were concerned about his visions way back when.

“No,” Sam answered simply, trying and mostly failing to sit up until both Serenity and Dean helped him. Sam’s hand rubbed Cas’s choker where he wore it on his left wrist. Something was very, very wrong, and Sam wanted to panic, but he didn’t know about what.

The phone rang, startling them both, and Dean gestured silently but sternly that Sam should not move.

“It’s Benny,” Sam said, not necessarily to Dean, but loud enough to be heard. Sure enough, Sam could hear his friend’s gruff voice from where he sat.

“It’s about Cas,” he almost sobbed. Dean shot him another worried look, continuing to talk to Benny. His eyes got wide when he realised Sam was right. Again.

“He wants to talk to you.” Rather than handing the phone over, Dean knelt by Sam and put the phone on speaker.

“Sam?” Benny’s voice called, loud and staticky thanks to the speaker. Dean turned the volume down a bit.

“I’m here,” Sam answered. “What’s wrong with Cas?”

Benny didn’t question how Sam knew, for which he was grateful. “I found him sleepin’ on the floor yesterday mornin’. I can’t tell ya why, but I just carried him back to bed. He’s been havin’ a real rough time. I’m not doctor, but . . . I dunno, I think I know some PTSD when I see it. Figured I’d give 'im a break, let him sleep as long as he needs.”

“Yeah, the guy’s a fucking cat,” Dean snapped, probably harsher than he meant to. “He needs, like, twenty hours of sleep every day or something.”

“Dean, it doesn’t work like that,” Sam told him for what felt like the millionth time. But the first time in recent years, and it brought back nostalgia so intense, such that Sam had never felt before. “Benny, please tell me he’s okay. He’s eating, right? Taking care of himself?”

It was silent for too long before Benny answered. “I want to say he’s okay,” he admitted. “Yeah, he’s been eatin’ everything I put in front of him and all that, but that’s not the problem. Thing is, he won’t wake up.”

Sam’s heart plummeted to his stomach, which was funny because he could swear it was clogging his throat. He couldn’t answer, could barely breathe right, so Dean spoke for him.

“Whaddya mean he won’t wake up? When we first picked him up, he slept for like three days. What’s the issue here?”

“I mean what I say, brother,” Benny snapped. “Castiel won’t wake up. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but it’s like . . . it’s like he’s comatose.”

“Oh God,” Sam whimper involuntarily. “Did you check his vitals?”

“Course I did. Everything’s in order, ‘cept for the fact that he’s not up and walkin’ around. That’s why I said he’s basically fine, but . . . ”

A thought occurred to Sam, then, one that he wished he could unthink because, despite the way he was keeping his distance, he still loved Castiel. Surely this couldn’t happen, not now. If it happened at all, it would have been in the cat carrier, where he had been counting the days of captivity.

“Talk to us, Sam,” Dean urged when Sam went dead silent.

Sam opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but no words came out. His mouth was dry, and he felt like he might vomit. He gestured for Serenity to bring the trash can over to him, just in case.

“I think -- “ he started, breathily, interrupting himself when he desperately pawed at the trash can to dry heave over it.

“I think Sammy knows what’s wrong,” Dean responded for him, holding Sam’s hair out of the way in case he actually did throw up.

“God, I hope I’m wrong,” he sobbed to himself. With a little effort, Sam carefully removed Cas’s choker from his wrist and immediately felt a little better. Still terrified, but physically better.

“I need to see him,” he said firmly.

“Sam -- “

“I need. To see him.”

Neither of his friends argued.

:::

Sam’s breath hitched at the sight of Cas laid out on the bed. At least Benny hadn’t arranged him like he was dead or anything, but it still gave him the impression of Sleeping Beauty.

“Close the door,” he whispered, as if Cas really were just sleeping and not comatose. He stepped out of the way and led them across Benny’s flat. “We have to go somewhere he can’t hear.”

“No offense, Sammy, but I don’t think he’s hearing much.”

Sam stopped at the top of the drop-down ladder and spun to face Dean. He was too tired and too scared to be angry, like he probably should have been, but he knew Dean was just talking to break the tension.

“I think I know what’s wrong,” he whispered, almost silently. Dean and Benny had to lean in to hear him. “And I think . . . “

When Sam just bit his lip and let his voice trail off, Dean jumped in. “So you know how to wake up Sleeping Beauty?”

Sam couldn’t help the little smirk that tugged at his lips, as much as he tried. “I think. Maybe.”

“What’s wrong with ‘im?” Benny pressed. “It there anything we can do?”

“You? No. I think it has to be me.” Sam took a deep breath. Voicing his idea made it possible, and he almost forced himself into silence. Words were magic. What if he jinxed them?

“Sammy?”

“He --” Sam choked on his words, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Okay, what you know about familiars. They find the witch, not every witch is blessed with one, and the bond is -- “

“Is the strongest in the world or whatever, yeah, we know.”

Sam grit his teeth. He knew Dean wasn’t being rude on purpose; he was just as concerned about Cas as the rest of them.

“A witch can live without their familiar.” Sam paused, waited for a comment from either Benny or Dean, and continued when he thankfully didn’t get one. “A familiar can’t live without their witch. Because a familiar’s entire purpose is to be with that witch and help them and . . . all that. So if the witch dies, or the familiar is replaced, or -- or their bond is severed in any way, the familiar will die of a broken heart. I mean, their heart will literally break, kind of like in cartoons.” Sam remembered watching an old video about the subject in school, and he shivered.

“Sappy,” Dean commented, but his voice wavered. “How does this apply to Castiel? He’s still alive.”

“That’s me,” Sam admitted as if he were confessing to a crime. “That’s all me. If I hadn’t cast a protection spell on him earlier this week, he’d be dea-dead.”

Serenity nudged Sam’s hand, fluttering clumsily up to his shoulder when tears pricked his eyes, but Sam turned away, refusing the comfort.

It was by pure coincidence that Sam had saved Cas’s life. But it was his fault that Cas’s life was threatened in the first place. He didn’t deserve comfort.

“Okay,” Benny sighed, “So you kept him alive. Good job.” There was not a hint of sarcasm in Benny’s voice. “How do we wake him up?”

At the question, Sam sighed, a heavy weight settling on his chest. He had an idea. A multitude of ideas, actually, and any one of them could be the cure-all. Or none of them could be. Sam wasn’t certain about any of this, really, and he ran his hand down his face in frustration.

He wouldn’t have known what happened at all if it weren’t for Cas’s choker, once again wrapped around his wrist.

“Leave it to me,” he answered wearily, which was a guarantee of neither failure nor success. “Just . . . leave me in there with him, don’t disturb us, and I’ll see what I can do.”

His friends nodded solemnly and moved out of his way when Sam stepped back towards Cas’s room. He paused at the door to collect himself and grabbed Serenity off his shoulder. She squawked in indignation and struggled when Benny stepped up to hold her.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Sam apologised sincerely. “But it really does just have to be me.”

Without another word, or even a beat of hesitation, lest he change his mind, Sam entered Cas’s room and closed the door quickly behind him, locking it and casting a quick sound proofing charm. Whatever happened in here, the others didn’t need to know about it.

:::

When they heard the click of the lock, Benny let Serenity down. She immediately dashed to the door, clawing at the wood and crying out.

“I think you trained her too well,” Dean commented lightly, only half joking.

“I think she remembers Castiel,” Benny answered seriously, watching the little dragon pace and whine at the door before finally giving up and just curling up in front of it.

“What?”

“Where do you think I got ‘er, Dean? When Castiel disappeared, I checked the little shed behind Sam’s house.”

“Where he kept the animals?” Dean asked.

Benny nodded. “There was only one. This little baby dragon with a disfigured wing. He must’ve found her in the woods or somethin’ because she wasn’t one of mine.”

“So Castiel took care of her way back when. What does that have to do with anything?”

Benny rolled his eyes. “Use that head o’ yours. When Castiel disappeared, no one knew what happened to him. To Serenity, it must’ve seemed like her caretaker had abandoned her.”

“Just like Sam wanted to think,” Dean finished in realisation.

“I think she’s trying to protect Sam from ‘im.”

“Like we’ve been doing.”

Benny swallowed thickly.

“You think . . . “ Dean continued. “You think if we just stayed outta their way, none of this woulda happened?”

“No,” Benny scoffed. “We did stay out of their way. Mostly. We did whatever Sam asked, let Castiel work ‘imself to death. I think things woulda been better if we meddled a little.”

To that, Dean didn’t have a response.

 


	8. Bullet Proof (i wish he was)

Sam was frozen standing at the bedside, staring. Castiel was laying on his side, mostly covered by a thick quilt, but that didn’t hide most of his injuries. The bald spot behind his clipped ear, the pale scars that were only visible when they caught the light -- they looked like scratches -- versus the darker red and brown, inflamed skin on his hands and arms that could only be burns. Sam frowned and stepped a little closer when he saw red lining Cas’s throat. All around, in one thin, full ring, was a stripe of bright, welted skin.

“Chemical burns,” Sam muttered to himself, remembering the burning around Cas’s neck in his memory.

Sam’s knees went weak, and he collapsed on the side of the bed. He could have prevented this. He could have healed these wounds -- maybe still could, if he could get Cas to wake up. Four years of separation, and Sam didn’t once think to look for his familiar. He accepted his temporary suspension from the Order, the box containing both his and Cas’s belongings, and just assumed that Cas was gone. He didn’t even ask. He didn’t even --

A dry sob caught in Sam’s chest. He could fix this. God, he hoped he could fix this.

He unwound Cas’s choker from his wrist and held it in his hand instead, focusing on the energy it produced. It was weak, and . . . Sam could only describe it as empty.

Sam closed his eyes and focused. He didn’t need visuals or sound -- Cas wasn’t providing any of that anyway -- so he focused as hard as he could on the energy in the room.

“Cas,” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”

There was a pulse of something, like a heartbeat, like an affirmative answer, and hope soared in Sam’s chest. Cas must have felt it, because suddenly his energy was much stronger. Still far too weak, but stronger.

“Thank God,” he found himself sobbing. “Oh thank God. Cas. I thought I was going to lose you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I never looked for you. I pushed you away when you came back.” A constant pulse of negatives hit him, and Sam couldn’t help but laugh wetly. Castiel was comatose and still trying to reassure him.

“I’m gonna wake you up,” he promised. “I don’t know how, but you’re gonna wake up, and then you’re immediately moving back in with me. I don’t care how much it hurts. We’ll figure something out. I can’t lose you. Not again.”

Sam tried to breathe evenly. If he could just get Cas’s energy a little stronger, if he could focus a little harder, he might be able to get into Cas’s head. Not like before, not poking around in his memories, but to talk to him, like they used to in the dark of night, when neither of them wanted to break the silence.

Sam opened his eyes. Castiel was no more responsive than before, nor was he easier to look at.

He closed his eyes again, this time against the sting of tears. He remembered their last night together before The Incident. He remembered the revelation, the -- well, it wasn’t so much of a revelation as a dam finally breaking. They were both so happy, happier then they had been in a long time, and that was saying something. Sam hoped he was projecting enough for Castiel to feel it too. He hoped the cat carrier memories weren’t the only ones his familiar lingered on.

Sam slipped off his shoes and considered removing his jeans as well, but Cas was still fully dressed. Would that be awkward? Sam didn’t bother with the pants, but he did crawl into bed with Cas, manoeuvring him so his head was lying on Sam’s chest, hand over his heart to feel his pulse, as if nothing had changed. This time, Sam held Cas a little tighter, clutched his hand in his own. He didn’t know if Cas could even feel this, but it made himself feel better.

“You know, I still have your collar,” Sam whispered. “It’s a little burned, but not too badly. When I first got it, in the box with all my other stuff . . . I don’t know if you know this. I thought you were dead. I tried to convince myself that you had found some other witch, and that you were safe and happy with them. But . . . “ Sam’s voice shook. “You know, I really had to face the music at some point. That’s why I didn’t look for you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sam got another heavy wave of negativity, and he would swear he heard _It’s okay_.

“No, it’s not okay!” Sam argued. “Cas, I . . . I got a memory from you. You know how I used to get memory projections once in a blue moon? Now, I get them all the time, and they’re sudden and unstoppable and -- “ Sam took a deep breath. “I got a memory from you. I think it was your first year stuck with the Order, right down to the day. I know you felt it. Am I wrong?”

Sam was rewarded with a much clearer _No_ and sighed in relief. Cas was slowly coming back to him.

“I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to drag up those memories for you, but . . . did they keep you there like that the whole time?”

 _Yes_.

“Really? All four years?”

 _Yes_.

“God, Cas, I’m so sorry.” He got a response of something unintelligible. Sam didn’t try to make sense of it. “When you showed up on my doorstep, you said they found me innocent. You said I was welcome back to the Order. Well, they’re not getting me back,” Sam spat. “They don’t get to treat my familiar like dirt and then welcome me back with open arms.”

Cas’s energy surged, suddenly. It still wasn’t as strong as it should have been, but it was a great deal stronger, enough to be able to actually communicate with Sam.

“Cas?”

_. . . Your familiar?_

Sadness clenched Sam’s heart in an icy grip and wouldn’t let go. “Yes, Cas. You’re my familiar. You’ve always been my familiar.”

_The dragon._

“Is a service animal. Not long after you . . . I mean I . . . look, it’s a story for another time, but the Incident fucked me up. I lost Jessica. I lost you. I lost everything I ever cared about and had ever worked towards in less than half an hour. So Benny trained Serenity to be my service dragon, and Dean drops by to check on me every day, and we all meet up at least once a week. They were just taking care of me when I couldn’t.”

_Because I couldn’t._

Sam’s grip on Cas’s hand loosened in realisation. “Is that what this is about?” he whispered, running his free hand through Cas’s hair the way Sam knew he liked. He could almost imagine Cas purring. “You think Serenity replaced you?”

_She takes care of you better than I ever could._

That was a full sentence. Sam should have been ecstatic, but more than anything he was frustrated and scared. “I almost lost you because you thought I replaced you. Castiel, you almost died, because you thought a dragon could take care of me like you did.”

 _Better_.

Infuriated, Sam gripped Cas’s face in his hands, eyes flitting over his face. Cas was still unresponsive, but Sam was hearing him loud and clear and he knew Cas could hear him as well.

“Listen to me,” he bit through clenched teeth. “There is nothing, no one, that could replace you. The only reason I have Serenity in the first place is -- “ Sam cut himself off. Was he really going to just snap at Cas’s limp body, reveal the only secret he really had anymore? No, he wouldn’t do that to Cas; it would just distress him.

 _Is?_ Cas prompted.

“I’ll tell you when you wake up,” Sam decided, his voice much softer. “So wake up.” Hesitantly, and feeling a little stupid, Sam brushed his lips against Cas’s. Soft, almost not there at all. Then, more confidently, Sam kissed him.

He pulled back to look at Cas and was more than a little disappointed when he saw he was still unconscious. “Yeah, you’re no Sleeping Beauty,” Sam laughed at himself, “but it was worth a try.”

Sam swore he saw Cas’s lips twitch, but it was so minute that it very well could have been his imagination.

“Do you remember,” Sam started softly, “The night before The Incident -- “

_The Accident. You’re innocent._

“Whatever. The night before the fire? When we kissed for the first time?”

_The only time until now._

“And we just . . . we held each other all night and kissed and loved, and we had never been so happy in our lives.”

_Yes, Sam. I remember. Of course I remember._

Sam sighed and moved them both so Castiel was once again resting his head on Sam’s chest. “What took us so long?” he asked hypothetically. “Why did the happiest day of our lives have to be right before the worst?”

_You know why._

Yeah, Sam knew why. It was taboo to pursue a relationship with your familiar, and Sam had been so worried that the Order would find out. He had no idea what happened to witches who broke that societal rule. Were they kicked out of the Order? Or just frowned upon? Either way, Sam had been too concerned about his reputation to love Castiel like he did. Sam had worked so hard to get into the Order, so he tried to squash the feelings, pretend they didn’t exist.

Now, Sam scowled and held Cas closer so he could kiss his temple. “Fuck the Order,” he bit. “I’m not going back there, not after everything.:

 _Sam_.

“No. I’ve been functioning just fine as a solo witch. All I want . . . Cas, all I want is you. I want to hold you and kiss you and make love with you, and even if I can’t get any of that, I want you by my side again.” Sam knew he wouldn’t have the courage to say any of this if Cas were conscious, if he had to look into his startlingly blue eyes and confess this.

“I just want you back,” Sam whispered. “That’s all I ever wanted. And I tried to let you go, I really did, but all I could dream about was you coming back to me safe and sound. And then you did -- kind of -- and I couldn’t handle it.”

_I’m sorry._

“Don’t you dare be sorry for coming back. Yeah, it hurt for a while. Truth be told, it still does a little. But when you wake up, you’re coming back with me. I haven’t touched your room or any of your things. Not that you spent a lot of time in there anyway, but . . . ” Sam swallowed before continuing. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have looked for you. I should have demanded they let me see you. I should have . . . done something. I’m so, so sorry, Castiel.”

Sam wrapped his other arm around Cas, letting the choker touch him without a second thought. Cas jolted, still visibly unconscious, but that was not a coincidental reaction.

_Is that . . . ?_

“Yeah, Cas. It’s your choker. I told you I kept it. Actually . . . I’ve been wearing it myself for a while. It . . . I don't know, it made me feel connected to you even when I couldn’t be in the same room with you.”

 _And now here you are_ , Cas replied humourlessly, _holding me just like old times._

“I miss the old times,” Sam admitted. “If I could go back in time and stop The Incident from happening, or at least keep us from being there, I would.”

Cas made a noise in the back of his throat, mostly breathy but with a bit of a groan at the end, like he was trying to make himself speak.

“That’s it, Cas,” Sam urged. “Wake up for me. Please.”

_I can’t._

“Yes, you can,” Sam encouraged excitedly. “Please, Cas, just say something.”

“S-S . . . ” he tried. “Sam-m.”

“Oh thank God!” Sam cried, practically throwing himself at Cas in a tight hug that punched a small _oof!_ out of him.

“Wh-why am I not d-dead?” Cas breathed, almost silently.

Cas’s eyes began to flutter open, only for him to wince and close them tight at the bright light coming from his window.

Sam pulled away from Cas, ignoring the pathetic “Noooooooo” that tugged at his heart, and stood by the bed.

“I know why you’re not dead,” he said. “But I’m not telling you until I know for a fact you’re okay.”

“I’m alive,” Cas wheezed. “I’m awake. What more do you need?”

“I need you walking and talking and moving like a normal person should. I need you to walk me home, because you know it’ll be dark by the time you’re up and about.”

Cas cracked one eye open and sighed heavily, but it didn’t erase the small smile on his face.

 


	9. Take Me (somewhere nice)

It was a full day before Castiel was up and moving, and even then, he hobbled a little with pain. Sam worked on mending Castiel’s broken heart, and yes, that sounded silly, but it felt so intimate that Castiel was embarrassed when someone else was in the room. Embarrassed, and a little bit angry and jealous. Because when Sam said, “Take your shirt off,” Castiel knew it would only lead to good things, and those things, he felt, should be private.

Although, Castiel would concede that Sam never kissed him with the others around. That was just for them.

And Sam was right:  It was dusk by the time it was declared that Castiel was healthy enough to leave, and all the way home, Sam clung to Castiel as if he were afraid, as if Castiel were some kind of anchor he could rely on.

The thought came with a stabbing pain in his chest, and Castiel stumbled a little. His heart may not have broken completely, but it wasn’t completely healed either.

“Cas?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, and kept walking home.

Home. Could he still call it that? Castiel couldn’t help but smile when they approached, tears pricking his eyes but not falling when they entered, and Castiel saw everything he had dreamed of for the last four years (one month, and twenty-nine days). There were a few subtle changes -- the pet bed in the corner of the kitchen that looked unused, a large jar of jerky on the mantle -- but besides those few minute characteristics, it all looked exactly the same. The yellow walls and bright red front door. The spice rack to the left of the stove, and the fridge shoved to the right corner. Not even the smallest decorations looked like they had been moved.

But most importantly, it smelled like home. Castiel’s carrier smelled of home and smoke for a while, but that faded quickly, until there was only the smell of pet instead.

“You okay, Cas?” Sam asked sincerely, but still, he was grinning.

“Yes,” he answered softly, just trying to soak everything in. “For the first time in a long time, I feel good.” Whatever damage he had done to his heart on the walk here had healed twice over, at least.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Sam flicked his finger, and a strip of braided and beaded leather wrapped around his wrist loosened. He held it out to Castiel. “This is yours.”

Castiel stepped forward to see it better. It was his choker, his collar. He remembered feeling so naked without it while he was locked up. He reached for it out of habit, but froze. He swallowed thickly, feeling the welts that had not yet healed -- and never might -- around his neck. They burned. He could feel his pulse in the inflamed ring.

While he was feeling and remembering, Cas dropped his hand, and Sam’s expression fell with it.

“Oh,” Sam said, trying to be casual and failing. The hurt in his tone was unmistakable. “I just thought . . . It was stupid of me to assume you’d want it back. I’m sorry.”

Castiel grabbed Sam’s forearm as he moved to pocket the choker, but words still failed him. So he held out his other hand to receive it, and Sam, a little shocked and concerned, dropped it into his palm.

“I want it,” Castiel finally choked out. “But I don’t think I can wear it.” The truth hurt, but seeing how his words affected Sam was ten times worse. No doubt, he was jumping to the wrong conclusions. Castiel wanted the choker. He wanted the world to know that he belonged to Sam, and Sam to him. He wanted to be Sam’s familiar again, but even though Sam smiled, Castiel could see that it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m glad to have you back, Castiel,” he said, his voice wavering but never breaking. “I really am. I . . . “ Sam closed his eyes and shook his head, and Castiel tentatively put a consoling hand on his shoulder.

“There are no words,” Castel decided a long time ago, and Sam agreed with a silent nod.

“How . . . ?” Sam started to ask, looking conflicted. He raised his hand to the redness around Castiel’s neck, but he didn’t touch. “Can I ask? How this happened?”

Castiel swallowed thickly with the memory. “Flea collar.”

Sam swore and lowered his hand.

“You, uh.” Sam cleared his throat. “We should be getting to bed. It’s late.” It was a diversion, if not a good one, and Castiel was grateful.

“Sam?” Castiel said, rather than following him. Sam stopped and turned halfway to look at him, and it was then that Castiel saw just how tired Sam looked before he put up another smile.

“Yeah?”

“You said you’d tell me why you have . . . Serenity.” The name tasted like acid on his tongue. He cast a glance at the dragon that was clinging to Sam’s right leg but, besides glaring daggers, had yet to hurt Castiel.

“That’s . . . Cas, that’s not a story . . . “ Sam sighed, world weary, and Castiel regretted mentioning Sam’s promise. “Listen. Tomorrow, we’ll sit in the spell room while I heal your heart. I’ll tell you about Serenity, and you tell me about what the Order did to you.”

Castiel looked away, licked his lips nervously. “You know what they did to me. You saw it.”

Sam shook his head. “Cas, look at you. You’re covered in scars and -- and some of the wounds look fresh. And I get that you were in the fire too, but that’s not it. They did something to you, and I want to know what. A story for a story. Sound fair?”

Castiel swallowed, still not meeting Sam’s eyes, and nodded. “But you’re not going to like what you hear.”

“You’re going to like what I have to say even less,” Sam promised, smiling wryly and gesturing for Castiel to follow him. “Come on, Cas. Bedtime.”

Castiel followed Sam down the hall, Serenity still glaring at him. If looks could kill. But Castiel hesitated. He had his own room just one door down, rarely used and probably untouched since he was incarcerated. Maybe it would be best if Castiel slept there instead.

“C’mon, Cas,” Sam urged, and Castiel had to follow.

Sam’s bedroom looked the same as well, except there was a slight depression on the right side of the mattress.

Castiel didn’t have to say a word; Sam knew what he was thinking. “I kept to my side of the bed. Usually. After . . . after your pillow stopped smelling like you, there wasn’t really a point to switching, y’know?”

Then, Sam seemed to shake himself and addressed the dragon still clinging to him. “Serenity, get off. I need to get dressed.”

Castiel turned around to face the wall, offering Sam some modesty. He heard Serenity hiss at him softly as she passed, but besides that, it was oddly quiet. Sam’s hand on his shoulder made Castiel jump, even as it remained warm and comforting, just as Castiel remembered.

“Cas,” Sam started softly, sadly, “what’s wrong?”

“You’re getting dressed. That’s all.”

“You’ve never been embarrassed by that before.”

“That is true, and I’m not embarrassed by it now.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Castiel sighed and turned his head to look at Sam, but he didn’t turn around. “Honestly? Sam, I don’t know where we stand in our relationship.”

A loud laugh burst out of Sam, seemingly out of nowhere, and Sam at least had the good grace to look embarrassed about the outburst. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “I’m sorry. It’s just -- we were all over each other at Benny’s, and you don’t know where we stand. It’s not funny, but -- ”

“No, it’s not,” Castiel bit, finally turning around to face Sam. Sam did not move his hand from Castiel’s shoulder, but the familiar shrugged it off, trying and failing to ignore the hurt expression that crossed Sam’s face for just a second. “One minute you can’t stand to be in the same house as me, and the next you’re in my bed. So excuse me for being confused, but I do not know where we stand.”

“Castiel . . . “

“I’m sorry,” Castiel sighed, although his apology was no less sincere. “I didn’t mean to snap. You said you wanted things to go back to how they were before the fire. That’s not possible -- you know that. I’m willing to try, though. I can try to be happy and be your familiar, and loving you is certainly no hardship. But I can’t . . . I can’t have one foot in the past, and one in the present, so to speak. Does that make sense?”

Sam nodded silently, not quite meeting Castiel’s eyes as he raised his hand again, this time to cup Castiel’s jaw. Castiel leaned into the touch comfortably, but didn’t move besides that.

“Do you think . . . “ Sam stopped himself, licked his lips, and tried again. “Do you think we can pick up where we left off, then?”

“When we left off, we shared one kiss.”

“Yes.”

“And we have shared many since then.”

“Yes.”

Castiel smiled, and when Sam finally met his eyes, he smiled too. Castiel always loved Sam’s smile, and he laughed a little, and so it escalated until they were both full-body laughing, clutching at each other to stay upright and falling onto the floor instead. There was nothing particularly funny, but it felt good to laugh, and to be laughing together. Castiel felt like he hadn’t so much as smiled genuinely in ages. He felt far too old.

“Sam?” Castiel started, a smile still in his voice.

Sam rolled his head up to look at him. “Cas.” His smile fell a little, and he suddenly became serious, even as his expression remained relaxed and happy. “Serenity doesn’t like you.”

“I know.”

“We need to find some way for the two of you to work together. Because I can’t just get rid of her. She’s family to me, but I’m sure as hell not letting you go again either.”

Castiel looked at the little dragon curled up in the corner. She was still glaring at him, but she had relaxed a little. “Perhaps I can try communicating with her,” he said to Sam, although he was still looking at Serenity. “As a cat, I mean.”

“You can do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, his lips pursed in consideration, and Castiel wanted nothing more than to kiss them.

“Let’s get to bed, angel.”

Castiel frowned, and said again, “Sam?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

Castiel considered the hands  Sam held out to help him stand, but he didn’t take them. “Do you really think we can make this work? After everything?”

Sam was silent for a moment, and while Castiel expected a positive answer, he also feared a negative one. “You know, Cas, for a while, I wondered if having you back was a good thing. It felt good, but it also . . . I don’t know, it kind of turned my world upside down, you know? But then I almost lost you -- again -- and I -- I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I think, even if we have to make it work, it will. Okay? I mean, I’m willing to try if you are.”

Castiel considered Sam’s answer silently, before looking back to Sam’s hands. He took them in his own and stood. “Of course, Sam. I’m always willing to try for you.” He didn’t mention that he fought at every chance he had to escape The Order, to get back to Sam. He didn’t mention the effort he had already put forth. He was always willing to try for Sam, no matter what that meant for them.

All things considered, Castiel thought this could only mean good things.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title from this work came from the Wiccan associations for mandrake and moonstone: Love and protection. More specifically, moonstone is used in spells for reconciliation in love and protection away from home.
> 
> I did my research, but the vaguely mentioned spells that Sam performs are not "real magic." That said, not only is magic relative, but it's not far-fetched to think that Sam made up his own spells.


End file.
